. . .

“I couldn’t free you even if you turned good,” says Edmund, softly, “you know.”

He can see the bone of Fenris Wolf’s leg where the binding’s cut.

“I know,” agrees the wolf.

“I wouldn’t want to,” confesses Edmund, with so much shame that it could drown him, that it could fill him up like an overfull beaker and pour out to slime and slick all the wolf dander in the room.

“It’s all right,” says the wolf quietly. “You aren’t the one to free me.”

Edmund goes up the stairs.

“That,” explains the wolf, “will be your son.”

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